The Last Command
by tuntuntunaa
Summary: Well, Archer thought, that was one of the most problematic commands he had ever had to heed. And don't forget the weirdest Heroic Spirit summoning he had ever undergone, surpassing even Rin's. AU, Gen. Probably will feature Papa!Archer soon.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey** **guys!**

 **Yes, I'm alive. But I think I've lost eight-and-a-half lives so far, and I'm left half-dead now.**

 **Remember me saying I got into an Architecture course? Apparently, I underestimated the horror of being an Archi student. People kept saying that you won't get much sleep, you'll be forever tired, oh my god I'm so sorry you're in Archi now please don't dropout or die etc etc...**

 **And I didn't really believe what they said.**

 **...How right they were.**

 **I mean, imagine having an assignment every week. Technically each assignment starts on Monday and ends on Thursday, where we would have to present our work to the studio. Sounds easy.**

 **Then, apparently when I was drawing or making models, what felt like 30 minutes of doing work actually took 3 hours to complete. There are some occasions when I just came back from lunch and began doing my work when suddenly someone asked me if I'd like to have dinner with him/her. I think I time-travelled.**

 **Time flew really quickly during assignments, and suddenly it was already Wednesday night and Thursday is the submission date and I was screwed. So, overnighting.**

 **It didn't help that the school doesn't teach us how to draw or make models. So we came on the first (proper) week, then BAM, here's an assignment about Ethics in Architecture, please design some sort of Architectural solutions, and oh it'll be good if you guys can make a model too.**

 **And that's just one module. I have five others. But I still like this module. I think I'm going insane.**

 **So yes, forgive me for ranting, for going missing in the past few months and for not updating the other stories first. I was busy trying to survive.**

 **As for Flames of Steel, I've some parts that I want my beta to check first, but she's also busy studying in a different university, so probably it'll be updated in December.**

 **What a Coincidence...hm...I'm still not satisfied with my progress so far, so hopefully I'll get an enlightenment during the holiday.**

* * *

 **This is technically my very first fanfiction, even before FoS. It is an AU, so there are some aspects that would not align with the original stories. I've written 2 chapters so far, so I'll post the next one too. I'm sorry if there's any discrepancies because I'm not an expert in Nasuverse or Harry Potter. I published this because I was trying to escape from doing portfolio.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter or Fate/Stay Night UBW.**

* * *

 **The Last Command**

Harry Potter x Fate/Stay Night: Unlimited Blade Works

Unbetaed

.

.

.

 **31 October 1981, Potter's cottage - Godric's Hollow**

Lily Evans-Potter was not a genius in runes. In fact, she had never studied runic arts, let alone practicing one. She didn't choose Ancient Runes subject in Hogwarts because it required steady and precise hand to draw perfect circles and complex runic languages, and her hand-drawing skill was practically non-existent despite her neat hand-writing.

Yet here she was, meticulously trying to draw one on the floor of their bedroom, literally with blood. At least, her beloved husband was helping.

"Are you sure this is going to work, Lils?" James Charlus Potter, despite himself being equally busy with painting the aforementioned runes, could not help but to express his skepticism.

Lily only spared a glance toward him before going back to her own work.

"I know that anything can happen to us, dear," she said, "What with how that blasted Voldemort was made known of that equally blasted prophecy. I don't believe in prophecies, but I can't stop thinking about it." Lily was quite sure it was paranoia talking, but she truly feared of losing her husband and especially her little bundle of light, Harry. Of course, she was apprehensive of losing her life as well, but it would be so much worse if she has to live without her two most precious men. "At least, if this ritual works, even if the chance is so minuscule, we would be much more prepared to face the Dark Lord's attack."

A few weeks ago, she discovered a Summoning Ritual - as stated on the cover - in the ruins of the Potter Manor. Lily wasn't sure why the Death Eaters didn't take the book with them (as the title of the book itself already sounded promising for any magic practitioner) when they raided the manor and scavenged everything they could find, but whatever she'd stumbled upon seemed to be a good opportunity to improve their chance of survival.

The book had no author mentioned, with the exception for an initial Z printed in gold at the first page. It was quite a mystery. As she read the book, Lily couldn't help but be fascinated with the endless possibilities presented by the unknown magic. Sure, she should be skeptical about the the book's reliability, but all the theories -while being mismatched to whatever magical theories that existed in the current magical societies- sounded legitimate enough. Coupled with the low sacrificial cost (blood of the summoner being the most disconcerting one) as well as the possible superior strength of the familiar that they could summon, her founding had thus led to their current situation.

After discussing with James, and with much more deliberation and shouting included, he finally relented to help Lily perform the 'alien' magic. James didn't share his wife's confidence, but he agreed that they wouldn't lose anything substantial from it -aside from their blood, magic and time.

Satisfied with the last stroke, Lily was about to check on Harry (who was busy playing with Paddy the dog plushy while warbling to himself in his crib) when the calm was shattered by a loud crash downstairs.

Her blood ran cold. Lily stayed rooted on the same spot where she just finished drawing the runes, petrified with fear. She hardly noticed her husband dashing towards the door and out of the room.

"Lily," James shouted, startling his wife out of her frozen state, "Take Harry and go! Go! Run! Just forget about the ritual, I'll hold him off!"

With a mad scramble Lily locked the door and took Harry on her arms. She loved James, she really did, but something in her mind told her that despite all the confidence on her husband, she knew he wouldn't survive facing Voldemort in a direct confrontation.

He would never come back to her again.

She was about to bolt out of the house - she couldn't _Apparate_ , the Anti-Apparation ward was up - had to jump out of the window or do something, anything, to get out with her son, _alive_ \- when the sight of the completed runes on the floor made her pause.

 _It's no use to escape,_ a small part of her mind supplied. _James is dead and Voldemort would kill Harry no matter what it takes. Might as well see if the ritual works._

Placing Harry gently on the floor (he was still warbling happily, thinking that their parents were playing a game, remaining oblivious to the dire situation they were in), Lily stepped inside the magic circle and started chanting. She had memorized the words, and while they didn't have any of the so-called catalyst to summon a specific familiar, she believed that whatever 'Servant' who will appear would be able to grant her wish.

As her magic surged into the runes, the lines began to emit a bright blue light. Wind started to pick up out of nowhere, knocking down the table lamp and scattering the papers in the room. Harry was startled, then he babbled some high-pitched gibberish as if exclaiming his fascination. It didn't deter Lily from chanting the long incantation as she focused on her wish.

Her only hope to at least protect Harry and let him survive.

 _Please, she prayed. Please answer my call!_

Lily vaguely noticed that the muffled sounds downstairs finally ceased. Tears were rolling down her cheek as she continued her choked words. The door handle rattled, then after a familiar, fear-inducing yell of a spell the door blasted open, knocking her down.

The witch stopped chanting, but her magic continued to supply the runic circle. Her ears were ringing from the sudden explosion as she struggled to stand on her shaking legs, her sight landing on the figure at the doorway.

The Dark Lord was here.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle, now better known as Lord Voldemort, was rejoicing over his soon-to-be victory against the prophecy (some would say he's _giddy_ , but such word was not proper for someone of his stature). Ever since one of his best agents, Severus Snape, mentioned to him the existence of the prophecy spelling his doom, the Dark Lord came to believe his mortal enemy to be the Potter family, specifically the newborn Harry Potter.

 _"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"_

Lord Voldemort believed his world domination plan would go even more smoothly if any potential threat was to be eliminated as soon as possible, prophesied or not. Sure, the prophecy mentioned the prerequisite of his... vanquisher, but Harry Potter's status as a half-blood made him a better target to kill than the Longbottom boy - although his family being a blood traitor made it another valid reason to kill the boy, albeit a weaker excuse.

At first, he looked forward to torture the mudblood witch first before killing her son in front of her, but Severus still hold her dear in his heart despite her marrying to his nemesis. The Dark Lord had therefore decided to spare Lily Potter while killing her son instead.

But remaining faithful to his servant's request was proven to be quite…challenging.

"Not Harry, please! Just kill me, but please spare my son!"

"Step aside, mudblood! At least be grateful that I am sparing y-"

"NO! Leave Harry alone! Kill me, but don't kill my son! I beg you!"

How dare this mudblood cut his speech! He was already being magnanimous to spare her puny life, yet she dared to go against him! Such impudence guaranteed death, but oh how he hated his promise to his servant.

He should _Crucio_ Severus after he finished his task tonight to remind him of his position.

After several warnings that were constantly ignored by the daft mudblood, Lord Voldemort had had enough. If the witch refused to step aside for so many times, he should at least grant her wish to be killed instead. Hmm…how should she die? Severus had groveled before him to beg not to use the Unforgivables on the witch, and the Dark Lord was having a good mood today. Well, he could still use other spells instead.

" _Sectumsempra_!"

Blood spurted from her face and chest as though she had been slashed by an invisible sword. Her scream was like a melody to his ears as he relished the sight of her collapsing in front of her own son. Sure, let her protect the boy to her last breath, let her experience the punishment of defying his words by dying slowly and painfully. The irony was even sweeter as he used Severus' prized spell on her.

Oh, look. The boy had finally realized that his mother was being murdered as he cried harder and harder. How lovely.

Drunk in his own soon-to-be conquest, the Dark Lord failed to notice the magic circle shining even brighter. Had he put his celebration on hold, he would have noticed the excessive amount of magic on the air, the slight cracking sound of lightning bolts and the strong wind bellowing out of nowhere (granted, the effects kind of complimented his peak moment).

The explosion, though, was hard to ignore.

* * *

Pain. Pain and blood and smoke. The explosion, the curse, the blood. Magic, drained. The Dark Lord, fear, fear for _Harry's life -_

Lily Potter was no longer in a sound state of mind. Since the curse, _Sectumsempra_ , hit her body and produced a large gash, she had lost so much blood to the point of lightheadedness making her thoughts singular. The overwhelming pain and her incoherency had undermined the prickling pain that her nerves had detected on the back of her left hand. If anyone saw it, a red symbol consisting of three distinct strokes - one short horizontal lines and two almost full circle lines of different size, all arranged to resemble some sort of a plastic hand-held fan - was printed on the witch's hand.

A distinct mark of the Command Seal.

Although her sight was blurred by tears and dust, the witch noticed…something was in front of her. It was hard to discern what, or who, it was. Before she could deduced anything, the figure suddenly moved closer to her.

"What is…who...the link-Master? Master!"

Ah…It was a man, with short white hair and grey eyes. She could only see his face as he crouched in front of her. His hands were hovering over her body as if confused on what to do, but before he could do anything else a sharp infant's cry shattered the silence.

 _Harry!_

With great effort, Lily tried to lift her right arm to clutch onto the man's wrist. The slight movement caught the man's attention, but he was again distracted by another distinct sound, this time a groan from the other side of the room.

 _The Dark Lord -_

"Har...ry…"

The man's head snapped back towards her, his eyes wide. A crackling sound was heard, and her left hand (where the Command Seal was) emitted a red light, yet she paid those no mind. It was the main reason why she chose to undergo the ritual, and she focused all of her muddled mind on her first wish.

Her first…and her last command to her Servant.

"Please…S-save my s-son…H-Harry…live…Harry… p-p-protect…from…D-dark…Lord…"

Then, Lily knew no more.

* * *

Well, Archer thought, that was one of the most problematic commands that he had ever had to heed. And don't forget the weirdest Heroic Spirit summoning he had ever undergone, surpassing even Rin's.

When he first became aware of his summoning, the overwhelming scent of blood was the first thing that hit his sense. Then the impossibly abundant mana on the air. And the smoke. And the link that connected his spirit to his Master. Who was behind him.

"What is…who...the link- Master? Master!"

Archer knew confusion amidst a battlefield was a sure ticket to suicide, yet he couldn't help but to be bewildered of whatever he had seen so far. His Master, who in any normal Summoning Ritual should at least be…healthy, was lying prone on a pool of blood. He wasn't a stranger to violence, blood and death, but to have his next Master since the Fifth Holy Grail War already dying even before he could do anything else was quite disconcerting.

His brain was multitasking between tracing several blueprints of weapons capable of healing _and_ panicking, because _what the fuck is going on, and why the Holy Grail hadn't even bothered to inform him of anything, really!_ It was a blank; aside from his status as an Archer-Class Servant, there is nothing else that could tell him about the world, which timeline he was in, was this still his original world, why were there so much ambient prana on the air…

A sharp cry broke his train of thoughts. His eyes once again set upon an unexpected figure. A baby, black haired and emerald eyes, bawling like there's no tomorrow while trying to reach the injured woman.

Why…? No matter, he could take care of the baby later. His dying Master caught his wrist, reminding him of his initial plan -

Another sound, this time a masculine groan, was heard from the other side of the room. Archer was quite well proficient at detecting specific magical signatures around his proximity (bloodhound, a voice that suspiciously sounded like his last troublesome Master echoed), yet the overabundance of mana in the air had caused his nose to be assaulted with various sharp scent, failing his senses. He was cursing himself for his inattention when he felt a spike of prana through his link.

"Har...ry…"

Surprised, he turned to his Master who, despite all the bloodloss and the pain that she must have experienced, was mumbling her first Command. It was under one minute after his summoning and Rin's situation wasn't even this bad.

"Please… S-save my s-son… H-Harry… live… Harry… p-p-protect… from… D-dark… Lord…"

A sense of compel washed over him as Archer watched his Master passed out. He wanted to refuse it, to pound into her head that your life was in great danger, dammit, and saving your son wasn't even a priority but the amount of magic and will that were poured onto her last command made him reconsider.

In the next instant, he performed Structural Analysis, a type of magecraft in understanding the composition of an object like viewing a blueprint, on his Master's body. A long, severe gash was evident, stretching from her left shoulder to her right hip, where blood continuously gushed out. Her body seemed to have basic Reinforcement from her od, but right now the amount of prana in her body was so low that it failed to aid the healing process, let alone stopping the blood flow.

And no magic circuits to speak of but a blob, a magical core, was present instead.

Cutting off his magecraft, Archer then came into a conclusion. His Master was…would no longer be able live much longer, even with the aid of his healing weapons. But her last command was crystal clear: to save and protect her son, Harry, from the Dark Lord.

He had an enemy to take care of.

"Guh! Y-you mudblood! How dare you…!" The smoke dispersed, and Archer could finally see the man across the room. He was immaculate, albeit a bit dusty, and looked normal enough to be identified as a handsome gentleman, if not for the…awful smell coming out of the stick on his hand. A wand…?

Standing on his full height, Archer turned to face the man. His eyes narrowed.

"Are you the Dark Lord?"

The man snarled at him as if he was affronted by his question, "How ignorant you are, fool! I am Lord Voldemort, the greatest Dark Lord who - Guh!"

A white scimitar, Bakuya, was suddenly embedded on the Dark Lord's shoulder, cutting off his speech.

Archer wasted no more time as he appeared right in front of his enemy, Kanshou raised. The black blade swung, but with a shout of " _Protego_!", an invisible shield appeared between them. The Servant's eyes widened as his strike, one that was on par with that of the true Heroic Spirits, beings superior to mundane humans, was blocked. At least, the attack blew the Dark Lord of his feet.

He tsked. Looked like this world was more troublesome than his own dimension.

Despite the downed form of its caster, the shield charm remained as it protected his opponent from his relentless attacks. Archer couldn't afford to use stronger weapons than the married swords as it might be too prana-exhaustive, and his Master might die then and there to supply him with the required energy. But the barrier wasn't indestructible against his continuous overwhelming strikes as it finally gave away.

Or maybe the Dark Lord wasn't that helpless, because the dismiss of the spell was so sudden that Archer stumbled when his strike hit nothing. It was a golden opportunity, and Lord Vo…Vode…whatever wasted nothing of it to counterattack.

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

A toxic green light flew towards him, and Archer spun to avoid the jet of smelly light (he'd never thought it was possible, but the spell was so evil in nature that it generated the vilest odor of, ugh, _shit_. Cursed his magical senses!). If he was Arturia Pendragon, he might be able to survive the spell, but he wasn't sure if his own D-rank Magic Resistance would be enough. The spell hit the ceilings with a blast of green fire.

It seemed to be the Dark Lord's favourite spell, because he laughed maniacally and casted the stinky green light over and over again. They were in an enclosed space - too cramped to dodge properly - and Archer didn't want to find out the effect if the curse hit him, so he summoned Kanshou and Bakuya once more to bat away the spells.

The spells struck the married blades in explosions of green flames, but his swords held strong. When both were wielded, the Counter Guardian's Magic Resistance improved, and the blades' rank increased. In a flurry of blades cutting through air, Archer moved in a blur, the flat parts of his weapons blocking every single spell that came for him or for the two individuals behind him. They were enough to shield him from the onslaught of the foul magic -

 **Crack!**

\- Or not.

Archer gritted his teeth as Bakuya shattered, followed by Kanshou after a few more contact with the green curse. The Dark Lord's diabolical grin widened upon seeing his opponent weaponless, and he casted one last green light -

Before it was once more blocked by a new pair of black and white swords.

The Dark Lord's eyes widened, before narrowing in a vicious glare. He snarled, and continued to send jets of lights onto the Servant. He seemed to finally realise that his attack wasn't enough to defeat his opponent, because this time round the beams of light coming towards Archer were more varied in colour.

'This is bad... I'm being pushed back!' Archer grunted as he constantly deflected the relentless attacks and projected the twin blades over and over again. He seriously lacked information of this world's magical societies, and the myriad spells used by the Dark Lord were not quite like the spells of the Fifth Holy Grail War's Caster. Some were elemental in nature, others were more unpredictable. One spell forcefully disarmed him from Bakuya, another disintegrated Kanshou. Archer tried to counterattack by throwing his blades, but with a calmer state of mind, the Dark Lord had proven to be very skilled in dueling as he could still conjure invisible shield while casting offensive spells. It was a stalemate; though Archer was well aware that if this continued for long, he would run out of prana and it would be a matter of time before he would finally get overwhelmed.

Tsk. At this rate, he had no choice but to -

" _Confringo_!"

The strength of the blast was so unexpected that Archer lost his footings. The countless number of spells hurtled towards him were all offensive, but in no way comparable against his physical strength as a Servant - except for this one. He cursed himself for slacking during combat -

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

His eyes widened at where his enemy pointed his wand at. Suddenly, a surge of massive amount of prana flowed into him -

" _Master!_ "

\- as the woman - who he was supposed to protect - collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, her hand outstretched. Behind her, Harry was sobbing at his mother, tugging at her lifeless body.

Archer froze.

The _link_ -

"Again?! How many times do you have to defy m- _Protego_!"

The Dark Lord was slammed on the wall as his hastily casted shield charm struggled against the rage-induced strikes of the Red Servant. Steel eyes glinted in fury.

" **I am the bone of my sword…** "

A crackle, then a red spear appeared on his hands. At first, Archer wanted to trace Rule Breaker, the ultimate Anti-Thaumaturgy Noble Phantasm and a cheaper option in terms of prana usage, but the dagger was too brittle to be used in combat. He didn't want this dark wizard to live any longer just because Rule Breaker was blocked by mundane objects like the door or something.

Hence, he summoned Gáe Dearg: the Crimson Rose of Exorcism, a demonic weapon which could render magical projections useless by severing all magical ties with its source. The spear wasn't as potent as the dagger of the Witch of Betrayal, but it was enough to bypass the shield charm of this god damned wizard. Archer dared to project this Noble Phantasm just because his Master, in the last moment of her life, had managed to supply him with a massive amount of prana for whatever reason.

Probably to finish off the menace of the Dark Lord once and for all.

A slash, then another, and another. It was as if the spear was cutting through thin sheets of paper, until the protective barrier was no more. The Dark Lord was stunned, and for the first time in their duel fear shone through his eyes, but he quickly scrambled up to cast his strongest spell - a killing curse.

" _Avada Kedavra_ -aAARRGH!"

Blood gushed out of his stump, and the Dark Lord shrieked at the excruciating pain that followed. Archer moved to cut the bastard in half, but his eyes widened at the green light coming out from the wand still held in the cut-off hand. He pivoted his body, and the curse flew past him by a hair's breadth.

It was a fatal mistake.

The jet of light was in a direct path towards Harry. The Servant Reinforced his legs and kicked off the floor so hard to the point a crater was formed, but he wasn't fast enough to intercept the curse -

"NO!"

A shimmer in the air, then the spell bounced before the infant, like a rubber ball bouncing against a sturdy wall.

Once again Archer jerked to dodge the suddenly rebounding killing curse. Ironically, the spell backfired, hitting its stunned caster head on. The Dark Lord exploded in green light, and the Servant shielded the baby from the blast. Archer shivered despite the heat, because something flew past him. He couldn't see what had happened to Harry until the light of the explosion died down.

After a few moments of adjusting from the sudden intensity, his eyesight finally returned. Snapping towards where the Dark Lord was supposed to be, he found no one instead. Not even a body remained, except for a wand.

This…this was ridiculous.

The infant behind him cried, prompting the totally unnerved Servant to turn around. Steel grey eyes met emerald, before Archer's sight drifted up towards the baby's forehead…

...where a bleeding and, um, really smelly lighting bolt-shaped scar was? _What the f-_

Pain shot up throughout his body, cutting off his observation on the boy. Tsk, it seemed he used up too much prana to trace Gáe Dearg - despite the extra supply from his now-dead Master - and prana-exhaustion finally kicked in. Archer sighed. He still had a duty to protect little Harry, but he couldn't afford to stay...materialised…

Wait, why wasn't he free of the command?

After checking what was remained of his link to his now-dead Master, he confirmed that his task seemed to have not done yet. That didn't make sense; the command clearly stated that he had to protect and save her son from the Dark Lord.

But the Dark Lord was no more because for some reason the killing curse backfired, and he is now dead…right?

No matter, for now it was best to dematerialise and conserve his prana. Someone bound to stumble upon Harry, be it an enemy or ally. He could decide his next course of action later.

Amidst his internal confusion, the Servant failed to notice a new magical signature. Peter Pettigrew scurried into the room in his Animagus form, only to find his master gone - leaving only his wand behind. His beady rat eyes widened at the sight of the red-clad man crouching before his master's nemesis. Trembling in fear, the traitor dragged his master's oversized wand with a herculean effort towards and into a rat hole, escaping from the site.

Upon Archer's de-materialisation, a man with greasy hair stumbled into the room. The Servant was about to re-materialise before noticing that the man lacked of any ill-intent. He could do nothing but watch as the man cradled his dead Master and sobbed hysterically, surprisingly ignorant of the poor state of the infant in the room. Before long, the man's head snapped to the side as if noticing something, then he gently laid the dead woman on the floor before disappearing with a loud 'crack'.

It wasn't even a minute later before a giant - a literal one - barreled into the room. Archer wanted to fend this dark-haired Santa Claus off of his charge, but then the door (or what was left to it) once more slammed open, this time revealing a man with long, lustrous black hair and aristocratic facial features. They both gasped at the horrific sight in front of them, and if Archer had a physical body right now he would fidget witnessing the grief at seeing their (most probably) friend dead.

After a full five minutes of sobbing and blaming themselves, Archer had the front seat to listen (or eavesdrop) to the most enlightening argument. The black-haired man, Sirius, was apparently Harry's godfather, and he wanted to take the recently-orphaned baby and raise him himself. But the giant, Hagrid, claimed that someone by the name Dumbledore had made arrangements to send the little boy to Lily's (his Master's) biological sister, Petunia. The way the giant said Dumbledore's name was like some Merlin reincarnated, by what the Servant had seen from the big man's reverence and blind devotion towards the man.

After some shouting match, Sirius finally relented. Then, he gave Hagrid a key, telling him that he could use his bike to get to Petunia as soon as possible.

Archer never thought that it would be a giant _flying_ motorbike, though. He should've realised by now that the magic practitioners in this world were insane.

(A part of him that was once a devoted mechanic of the Fujimura clan was so tempted to cast Structural Analysis on the bike, and see what made it fly.)

Before long, the giant cradled Harry on his burly arms and left the partially-destroyed house with said giant flying motorbike, Archer hot on their heels (he still reeled over the fact that they had a fucking flying motorbike, and wondered what would Rider's reaction be).

The events in the past hour was so fast-paced and so surreal that the usually stoic Counter Guardian couldn't help but to chant in his head.

What the fuck had just happened?!


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! Thanks for the reviews! Even I agree that there are a lot of inconsistencies in the world of fanfiction. But then again, so do the original stories. I mean, it is difficult to have a rational theory when you are talking about fictions, and that's even before considering magical/fantasy genre.**

 **For now, I'll stick to following whatever I can find in the wikias for both Nasuverse and Harry Potter.**

 **Speaking of which, I can't find much information about Servant's de-materialisation in the wikia or in the anime. So I'll just assume partial-materialisation is possible in this case.**

 **I want fluff and papa!Archer, so that's my main focus for now.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Nasuverse or Harry Potter, because my brain can't really keep up with all the worldbuilding theories.**

 **Warning: mention of child abuse, though not so explicit or extreme**

* * *

 **31 July 1985, Little Whinging, Surrey**

It was a lovely, if a little bit warm, day in a small town of Little Whinging. The sun reached its highest point, and the surrounding nature was buzzing with life. Trees grew in full green leaf while orchids and honeysuckle bloomed, revealing their beauty to the world. Bees and butterflies all aflutter as they fed upon nectar-rich flowers.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the scorching sun. Rows upon rows of identical houses filled the otherwise boring neighbourhood, as if it was proving the unremarkable lives of its inhabitants. It was common, it was normal, it was ordinary.

Nothing important had happened here, really. Unless, if you count the occasional happenings that surrounded the house of Number 4, where the Dursleys resided with the infamous 'Freak'.

The entrance door of said house abruptly slammed open, and a blur that was a raven-haired child shot past it. Hot on his heels was a red-faced, overfed and coronary-ready man, holding up a rolled piece of newspaper and swinging it around as he tried to hit the boy. The shrieking of a woman and the laughter of another boy echoed from inside, completing the picture with an unseemly background sound.

"Out, Freak! Out!" Huffing in exertion, Vernon Dursley drove his nephew-in-law away from his perfectly normal dwelling. He continued shouting at the top of his lungs even if his target could no longer be seen. "Useless boy, can't even do things right! I've had enough of your ungratefulness!"

It was sad that none reacted to the incident. Neighbours only tsked in annoyance, not at the patriarch of the Dursley's family but at the 'Freak'. Upstanding citizens such as the Dursleys didn't deserve a misbehaving child shoved upon them (or that was what Vernon thought).

'Freak' ran and ran and ran, far far away from his 'home' and from the harsh treatment of his 'family'. The little boy breathed haggardly in exhaustion, as choked sobs occasionally escaped his mouth. He tripped over a small rock and fell, his knees scrapped, but the pain only added more tears to his eyes. Not much could be done to ease the pain - the accumulated pain in his years living under the cupboard as a mere dog and servant of the family he was 'mooching off', an undeserving son of drunkards - so he stood up and continued running.

Maybe it was just a coincidence that his feet carried him to a nearby park, or maybe he unconsciously seeked the one place where he could only gazed longingly at children playing with their parents. Or maybe it was fate, because as he hid behind a bench to cry to his heart's content, a low voice interrupted his self-deprecation moment.

"You alright there, kid?"

'Freak' jumped, not expecting someone sitting on the bench (he thought it was empty a few seconds ago). His eyes snapped towards the stranger - a tanned skinned young man with white hair Uncle Vernon would never approve of - before looking back down. Shuffling on his feet, 'Freak' didn't know how to respond. He had overheard Aunt Petunia telling Dudley once not to talk to strangers, saying that he might get kidnapped by bad people.

But there was something in the stranger's tone that surprised him. Often times Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon asked Dudley with the same tone whenever he scraped his knees, 'worried' for their son's wellbeing. But never was it directed towards him.

His reaction seemed to take too long, because the stranger ruffled his white hair before sighing. He stood up, and 'Freak' thought the man would simply leave like those other adults who tried to talk to him before Uncle Vernon ushered them away. A few moments later, however, strong arms gently raised him up, and the stranger carried the little boy to the bench and seated him on it, to his consternation.

The man plopped beside him, before closing his eyes. 'Freak' thought the white-haired stranger was asleep, until the man reached out to pat the boy's head softly and said, "Now, cry. I'll be here with you."

It was like a magic word, because as soon as 'Freak' heard it, his dam broke. Fat tears rolled down his cheek as he curled into a ball, hugging his knees. It was unlike his restrained breakdowns during his nights in the cupboard, because this time round he didn't have to bite his tongue to prevent his sobs escaping from his mouth and angering his uncle. For the first time, 'Freak' could cry freely.

After close to half an hour, his tears finally ran dry. A few hiccups wracked his small body. It was like a burden was finally lifted up from his shoulders. He tentatively peered up to the stranger, and the man cracked open one eye.

Emerald eyes met steel grey. 'Freak' frowned. For some reason it looked familiar.

"Done?"

A hesitant nod.

Stretching like a cat, the man stood up, dusting away imaginary dirt from his lap. He raised his hand to the boy's eye level, but 'Freak' only stared at him in incomprehension. The white-haired man sighed, before gently took the child's hand and pulled him up.

(His hand was rough and calloused, but it was big and warm.)

"Come on. Let's take a look at those scratches, hm?" Looking at 'Freak' from head to toe, he added, "And maybe get something for you to eat. You're too skinny for a boy your age." Tugging softly at the boy's hand, the man led him out of the park to the street.

At the mention of food, 'Freak' perked up. He didn't manage to have breakfast as Uncle Vernon and Dudley finished all of it, and Uncle Vernon would smack him with newspaper if 'Freak' was caught eating without permission. He lightly jogged to keep up with the man's long strides, before the man noticed this and walked at a slower pace.

"Hey, kid." The boy looked up, and he had just noticed that the man was even taller than Uncle Vernon, but not as bulky. "What's your name?"

"...F-Freak."

The man twitched, and 'Freak' flinched as the larger hand tightened its grip on his smaller one. He vaguely heard the dark-skinned man muttered something about walrus and sashimi, but 'Freak' was too busy panicking to think about it.

Oh my god, he's going to beat me up-

"That's a lame name." The boy jerked at the cold statement. He dug his feet on the ground and was about to shake his hand free of the iron-grip hold-

"...Nevermind. I'll call you Harry from now on."

His hold on the small child's hand softened. The man's lips twitched into a small, wry smile before ruffling the boy's hair.

"Har...ry?"

"Yeah. Sounds better, right?"

It was, indeed. 'Freak' - no, Harry - relaxed, before shyly nodding in agreement.

They continued walking. Fr- Harry didn't know where they were going, but honestly it didn't matter. The man had only been kind to him since they met. Maybe he was different than Uncle Vernon? The boy peered at the man's face before looking down once more.

The man noticed this, though, because he asked, "What is it?"

Blushing, Harry mumbled. "...W-who are you, mister...?" It was so soft, and he even trailed off in the end. But the man had heard it anyway.

"You can call me Archer."

Another comfortable silence. Seeing that his first question was answered without a following violence, Harry tentatively asked his next question. The biggest question of the year.

"...W-why…?"

Archer glanced down at him. "Why I approached you?" He hummed, "That's because you're all alone, Harry, and you were crying."

Harry frowned, not understanding the man's reasoning. Other adults had approached him before, but upon seeing that it was the 'Freak', they feigned ignorance and quickly left. Both man and child fell silent once more, before Archer turned sharply into a new street, leading Harry to a pub. 'The King's Arms' was written on the wall above its entrance. The white-haired man didn't seem bothered by the prolonged silence as he opened the pub's door. The bell tinkled.

"Welcome to- Ah! Archer! Didn't expect to see you today." A middle-aged man with receding dark hair and bushy beard stood behind the bar, waving at them. Some customers noticed the tall white-haired man entering the pub, and for some reason they started to get excited and promptly opened up the menus in front of them.

The bartender noticed Harry beside the white-haired man and he did a double-take. Looking at Archer and Harry back and forth, he finally asked, "Who's this kid?"

Archer waved lazily, "A stray. I picked him up."

The bearded man stared at him, and Archer stared back. They were in a standstill for about a minute before the bartender flung his arms up. "Well, he looks too skinny to my taste. Going to feed him?"

Harry flinched. That was ("Freaks like you are like dogs. Come here only to eat and sleep.") too close to the mark. The white-haired man ignored the question as he led the boy to the back of the pub, before entering the kitchen. A chef was there, though he glared at Archer upon catching sight of his white hair. Archer only smirked in return.

"Sit here." He gestured at a stool almost as tall as Harry. The white-haired man then went out, leaving the little boy scrambling and trying to climb up the stool, to no avail. A minute later, Archer was back with a first-aid kit. He looked at Harry, before sighing and lifting the boy up the stool to sit.

Harry observed the man fixing up the scratches on his knees. The boy didn't know how to take care of wounds properly, as his aunt and uncle didn't bother to teach him. The liquid - alcohol, Archer said - stung, but it didn't hurt as much as Uncle Vernon's slaps and Aunt Petunia's barbed words.

Plastering a band aid with lion cartoons on it, Archer finally nodded in satisfaction.

"There. All done. Now, I believe we have a lunch to make-"

"Now, wait a minute! Your shift isn't until-!"

"Shut it, Alfie. He's using his own money. Just let him cook."

"But, sir! He stole my customers!"

"That's your fault, not his-"

"Excuse me! Is Archer cooking?"

"Is he?!"

"No. Get back to your seat, you lot! Come back on Saturday if you really want his food!"

"Pooh…"

Ignoring the rowdy exchanges, Archer turned to Harry. "Wanna help me out?"

Harry nodded, prompting the man to take a different stool, smaller than the previous one and with stairs on it. The boy tentatively stood on it, the kitchen table just right below his chest, and Archer gave him an apron.

It wasn't really the young boy who cooked, but for the first time in his life, Harry enjoyed his most dreaded activity.

* * *

Archer cursed himself for his inability to do anything for his charge.

It had been four years since the fateful day; since the red-clad Servant followed the giant of a man to a small town in Surrey. At first, Archer wanted to materialise and pound at the Santa Clause wannabe of the importance of hiding from civilians' sight. A flying motorbike couldn't be more inconspicuous, after all. He half-expected Enforcers or Magi from the Clock Tower to appear in front of Hagrid and kill him for the breach of their secrecy (or slapped a Sealing Designation on him for performing a True Magic), but he had to remind himself that this was a different world. The ruckus caused by the wizards here should have attracted their attention, but so far none from the Magi Association had come.

Archer wanted to grumble during the entire journey of flying. At least, the bike had a sidecar, or else he had no choice but to cling at the giant's back. Archer would shudder if he had a body.

As they arrived, the surrounding neighbourhood was curiously dark. None of the lamps were on. It was understandable that the street was empty; judging by the position of the moon it should be around midnight. Except, two individuals were waiting for them, and Archer wanted to cry at their fashion statement.

One was a rather stern-looking bespectacled woman wearing an emerald cloak, while the other was an old man with a white beard and crooked nose. And, oh, he wore a cloak too, a purple one. If not for the era that they were in, the Counter Guardian would have thought he was the stereotypical Merlin.

He thought the Merlin wannabe - Dumbledore - could see his astralised form, as the wizard snapped his head to where Archer was standing. His gaze lingered, but after a few moments of seeing nothing and his wand hitting nothing, the old man finally relaxed. Archer raised an astralised eyebrow at that.

After some discussion about motorbikes and scars, Hagrid gave the baby to Dumbledore. The giant gave a really sloppy kiss to little Harry's cheek and Archer thought he was about to eat the infant, because his entire head and bushy beard completely covered the little bundle. Then, the giant howled in tears as he expressed his concern of 'poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles'. Archer couldn't help but curse Alaya for this dumb situation.

Dumbledore laid Harry gently on the doorstep of one of the identical houses, before producing a letter out of his cloak and tucking it inside Harry's blanket. Archer wanted to scream in frustration; what kind of people leave an infant alone at a doorstep in the middle of a night?!

Saying something about celebration, they left just like that. Oh, and the woman - McGonagall - turned into a cat, by the way. A sorcery?! No, it wasn't that surprising. Honest.

The Counter Guardian thought the situation couldn't get worse than that. Oh, how wrong he was.

Gathering prana, Archer materialised his right hand only before rapping on the door. A few moments of no answer, he knocked again, this time with a bit more force. He was about to screw secrecy and blow the damn door off its hinge when it opened, revealing a woman who Archer couldn't help but be reminded of…of a horse.

She looked puzzled at the sight of a baby in her doorstep (who wouldn't, seriously). When she picked up the letter and read it, all hell broke loose.

The matriarch of the house screamed bloody murder, waking little Harry up. She was about to commit an inhuman act of kicking a baby, and Archer was about to fully materialise to kill her when a neighbour shouted at her for being too bloody noisy. She flushed, before reluctantly, bitterly taking the baby inside.

Archer greatly regretted his inaction on that day. But even if he had done anything to pry the baby off that woman's hands, he couldn't have done anything better to take care of Harry. He was at all time low of prana, and he could hardly materialise for a few hours. And no matter how much he hated her, the woman - who was his Master's sister - had the capacity to take care of baby Harry, although she often times neglected him in favour of her own son. Archer didn't even have the money to buy baby formula, nor had he a place to live.

(Archer wouldn't admit it, but he was acting like a mother. A jealous one, to boot.)

The Red Servant thanked and cursed his B-rank Independent Action Skill. Thankful that it was high enough to let him take action without being tied to a Master, and dreadful that it was not high enough to allow him to remain in the world for long without a Master to supply prana.

It was three days later, then, when he noticed that his prana reserve was actually recovering. Sure, it was really slow to the point he couldn't tell the difference until days later, but it was a start. After several trial and errors, Archer concluded that there was a magical barrier that existed around the Dursley residence, supplying him with prana. He wasn't sure where it came from, or who erected it, but he figured he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. So long as he was within it, he could survive.

That didn't mean he could just materialise anyhow though, no matter how much he wanted to. Being in astralised form helped to conserve prana, but boy how he longed to slice the walrus that was Vernon Dursley in half. The man relished in antagonising little Harry just because the boy was categorised as a 'Freak'. Touching the baby was like touching death itself. It didn't help that his wife, Petunia, was indifferent towards her own nephew's wellbeing.

Archer had initially planned to form a contract with Harry as soon as he could talk and pronounce complex words correctly, but that plan quickly flew out of the window the moment he casted Structural Analysis on the boy. Unlike his former Master's magical core -which was stable, her son's core writhed in uncontrolled magic. Sometimes, it released random bursts of magic, other times his magic laid dormant.

If the Servant tried to form a contract in this state, he would either pop like an over-inflated balloon, or withered like a dry leaf.

Thus, it was four years of pain, both for little Harry and for Archer himself. No matter how much he claimed to have abandoned his goal to save people and be a hero, or how many people, including children, he had killed, the Counter Guardian that was once named Emiya Shirou was a soft person in nature. To see a little boy whom he was supposed to protect being treated like a scum, and to be powerless to do anything about it clawed his heart.

Archer thought any of Harry's other relatives would have come and visited him, but for years none had come at all. He was really hoping for them to take the child away from this blasted house, but not even Harry's godfather came. The Servant frowned at that. Sirius seemed genuinely care for his godson, but he was never here. Nor were the magical people who briefly met the child on the day his parents died.

Poor Harry was lonely and hurt. A child abused by his own relatives, a child who had no one to shower him with care. Where were they?

Thus, for the first time in millenia, the Counter Guardian resolved to save a person once more.

A number of calculations and analysis later, Archer deduced he could materialise for a maximum of eight hours per week, provided when he's in his spiritual form he stayed at the Dursleys. That wasn't reassuring at all, to be honest.

It was a coincidence that Archer saw a notice on a pub a couple blocks away. 'Hunger is the enemy and the people need a chef. Join the King's Arms to save the day!' An image of a regal blond she-king popped in his mind, and he ruefully smiled at that.

Since then, he worked as a part-time chef during weekend nights at the King's Arms. It was not bad; after the owner/bartender of the pub tried out his dish, and the pub became a popular dining site since then, the white-haired Servant immediately got a pay rise a week after he started work. Thankfully, Harry was still a young child, so he would usually be fast asleep early at night, leaving Archer with free time every evening.

For now, making money was his first priority, in case the Dursleys decided to kick Harry out all of sudden. What a grim prospect.

It was when Harry reached a kindergarten age things went downhill even more. The little boy's status was promoted from a useless scum to a dumb slave.

 _"Mow the lawn, boy!"_

 _"Sweep the floor, brat!"_

 _"Cook the bacon, Freak!"_

That's it. No, Archer wasn't going to slice the walrus or the horse into two. He was going to skin them first before making the first walrus and horse sashimi combo in the world. And maybe add an extra roasted pork in it.

It appalled him that Harry grew skinnier day by day, while the Dursley males grew fatter and fatter. Archer tried to help Harry with his tasks, such as discreetly cut the vegetables when Petunia called the boy over, or mopped the floor when the house residents were asleep.

There was one time when the pig kid - Dudley - step into the bathroom while Archer was plunging the toilet. It was hilarious when the boy rubbed his eyes furiously before falling on his oversized ass and wailing in terror when the image of a flying pair of cut-off hands holding a plunger was still there. His parents rushed to the site only to see nothing out of ordinary, with the exception of their son's state of blubbering mess and a clean toilet.

It wasn't so funny anymore, though, when the horse woman accused Harry for it, claiming he was just like his 'freak of a mother'. The rest of the Dursleys went on with it.

Since then, Archer helped Harry even more discreetly, and paid more attention to his surroundings in case someone might witness more mutilated limbs doing housework.

The years passed by in a blur. Archer feared that one day Harry would snap. Child abuse was traumatic, after all.

That was why the Servant had anticipated Harry's first runaway. The boy was peeling off potatoes when one of it fell and rolled down the floor. Archer was about somehow roll it to the side without making it look like the potato was alive when the pig boy barreled into the kitchen and stepped on it.

The pudgy boy fell. It looked painful, but surely all the fats would've absorbed most of the impact force, right?

Then, he bawled and pointed at Harry.

Chaos ensued, leading to Vernon slapping Harry with newspapers and Petunia shrieking bad names at the poor boy, while Dudley laughed and clapped happily as if he was watching an exceptionally humorous parody.

Vernon wanted the 'Freak' out, and Harry was glad to follow.

Some tripping and crying and introductions later, here they were; eating lunch at the King's Arms, with bystanders salivating as they could only look at the meal longingly. They were puzzled when instead of wolfing down the over-enticing fish and chips in front of them like hungry dogs, both boy and man ate at a sedated pace.

No, actually only Archer ate sedately. At the corner of his eyes, Harry fidgeted violently. His eyes were shining. Was that saliva at the corner of his mouth? The boy clearly looked hungry, yet it was a wonder of how much gargantuan effort he must've put to restrain himself from eating like a whale.

"What are you doing?" Harry jerked, his movement stilled. A familiar fear shone from his eyes, and Archer bit back a groan of frustration. His heart twinged. Apparently, he underestimated the extent of damage the Dursleys had inflicted upon his charge.

Glaring at the bystanders, he waited until they all had scurried away. Archer leaned forward before whispering to the boy in front of him, "Don't worry. You can eat as much as you want for free."

Harry peered up at him. "R-really?" he whispered back.

"Really," Archer reiterated with a warm smile. "It's all on me."

Abandoning all propriety, Harry started inhaling the food in front of him. Archer pitied him, so he gave a bit more of his portion to the growing boy.

"So, why were you crying just now?"

Harry looked down, his hands playing with a stick of french fry. "...," he mumbled.

...Okay, his ears were reinforced now. "What was that?"

"U-uncle Vernon… t-tell F-fre- ah, H-Harry is useless…" The boy's eyes started to become glassy. "D-Dudley fall b-because Freak is not peel the p-potato right…"

"But you did peel the potato nicely, Harry." Archer had to clench his fist to prevent it from 'accidently' slipping towards Vernon's face. No matter how far he was from the walrus. "I saw you peel and cut the potato like a pro when we made french fries just now."

Harry hiccuped. "B-but, Aunt Petunia-"

"Say," Archer cut him off. He shouldn't have asked that question. He should've known better than whatever Harry had just told him.

He had to resort to manipulation, then, to pry the boy away from the Dursleys. Maybe not permanently, but the less time he spent in that blasted house, the better.

"Wanna work with me?"

Harry was startled. Not only him, though. At his periphery, Archer's boss also jerked. So much for subtlety.

"W-work…?"

The white haired man nodded, "Yep. As an assistant cook."

Harry just gaped at him. Said-cook then adopted an innocent thinking pose resembling Rin's.

"Hmm. You'll get paid nicely -"

"Hey! I'm the boss here!"

"- And you can spend most of your day here."

The boy perked up at that. Good, he was in.

"No, you can't do it just like that!" Out of nowhere his boss - Gerrard - interjected. Archer had to lean back to avoid the spittle. The bushy bearded bartender stole a glance at Harry, before glaring back at his chef. "He'll need a consent from his...guardians."

Archer's eyes narrowed. 'Guardians', not 'parents'. Hm, he might have to interrogate his boss later.

"Is that so?" Rubbing his hands, the Servant-turned-cook licked his lips with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Then, I can try to, ah, _convince_ his guardians to let him work here."

All human beings present in the pub shivered.


End file.
